The Case of the Closed Compartment
by Anozira
Summary: Holmes and Waston investigate a murder comitted in a locked compartment of a London Train. Based on true events surrounding the Murder of Thomas Briggs. New Chapter!
1. Author's Note

The Case of the Closed Compartment

Author's Note

The following story is based on true events surrounding the murder of Thomas Briggs in 1864. In order to properly fit the story into the accepted Holmes timeline, I have moved the case forward 19 years to take place in 1883 The details of the case have been largely left unchanged, only the ending has been tampered with. A google search for "Briggs murder 1864" will yield several websites with Victorian newspaper articles giving the details of the case.

For those of you who aren't as familiar with the history of the railroad, in 1864 trains were still a very new invention and many people feared them. The Briggs murder was the first murder to take place on a train in England and the second train murder to take place in the world (a Chief Justice was murdered in his compartment in France 4 years earlier.)

One of the important features of trains at the time was that the compartments were isolated with no walkway linking them. Think of the Hogwarts Express. That train has separate compartments with a walkway that allows passengers to move from compartment to compartment while the train is moving. Trains in 1864 did not have the walkway linking the compartments. As soon as the train was moving a passenger was locked into his compartment for the duration of the journey. This was still true of trains in 1880, the walkway wasn't invented until 1890, thus moving the murder forward 20 years doesn't interfere with the important particulars of the case.

I owe the idea for this story to Dr. Dew's "train class." In a way it would be remarkably fitting to dedicate this completely pointless story to Dr. Dew's completely pointless class. However, I hope that the following story will be a hundred times more entertaining than that class ever was. If it is not, forgive me, and review and tell me so.

And now, on to the story!


	2. A New Client

_To my sister, who puts up with my obsession and listens to my tales._

**The Case of the Closed Compartment  
**

Chapter 1: A New Client

"I had believed the English criminal had lost his ingenuity completely, but it seems, for good or for ill, that I was mistaken," Sherlock Holmes proclaimed gleefully to the room at large.

I looked up from my breakfast and regarded him as he sat in front of an untouched plate with a pipe in one hand and a telegram in the other. "Why do you say that Holmes?"

For answer, he tossed a telegram across the table. It read simply "am in need of consultation, will call at 11 if convenient."

"A case?" I wondered out loud.

"I have great hope, Watson." Holmes smiled, and rose to knock his pipe out into the fire. It had been nearly a week since Holmes' last case, and the inactivity had begun to wear on him. It was refreshing to see him active and excited rather than moping listlessly about our sitting room.

Eleven O'clock saw the approach of a hansom cab to the door of our residence. A lady in a rather worn bonnet and calico dress disembarked and, much to my surprise blew the driver a kiss in lieu of paying her fare. The cab pulled away and presently there was a ring of the bell and the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. I turned to Holmes, who listened to the approach of our visitor from the bow window and commanded, "enter" when the sound of footfalls paused. Mrs. Hudson opened the door shaking her head. I believe it still shook her to be invited to come in before she had knocked, in spite of the nearly three years that my friend and I had now spent at her residence.

"Miss Rachel Matthews to see you, Mr. Holmes."

"Show her in, Mrs. Hudson." Holmes said, turning from the window to stare at the door. Mrs. Hudson ushered in the lady I had observed from the street. Mrs. Hudson shut the door behind her, leaving Miss Matthews standing rather uncertainly just beyond the threshold.

She was not a rich woman, as her shabby bonnet attested, but neither was she poor, for her dress, while faded, was well-made. She had taken some care with her appearance. Her hair was curled nicely around her face, and her bonnet fastened with an attractive and nigh-on perfect bow. I smiled and gestured towards the armchair by the fireplace, but before I could invite her to sit down, she spoke, regarding me with intelligent and startlingly blue eyes.

"You must be Dr. Watson." She said, moving forward to offer me her hand. I took it briefly.

"I am indeed, and this is my friend and colleague, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

She nodded and turned towards him. "Of course, everyone has heard of the esteemed Mr. Sherlock Holmes nowadays. Especially since the details of that horrible murder were printed in the _Strand_."

"_A Study In Scarlet_ I believe was the fanciful title you gave it, Watson." Holmes stated with a bit of a chiding tone in his voice, and I bristled involuntarily. "Your father was very kind to drive you here." Holmes remarked casually to the lady.

She smiled, "You perhaps saw the kiss I blew him before he drove off?"

Holmes was obviously impressed at her ability to follow his logic, as was I. I must confess I had not connected Holmes' conclusion to the kiss she had given her cab driver, but rather had been as mystified by his deduction as always.

"Indeed I did. The Cab driver was too old to be beau of yours, and you are not married as your left finger attests. Thus, I surmise he must be your father."

Her face changed instantly from laughing to troubled upon Holmes' mention of the word "beau."

"Ah," Holmes said as he moved to take his customary seat in the basket chair, "Am I correct in assuming your problem concerns a beau."

"My fiancée." She corrected, taking a seat in the chair opposite Holmes, while I settled on the edge of the settee. "You see, Mr. Holmes, he has been accused of murder and it seems he will hang for it."


	3. The Lady's Tale

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Chapter 2: The Lady's Tale

"I find it is always advisable to begin at the beginning." Holmes gently reminded our guest. "If you would, Miss Matthews, recount the story in its entirety. Leave nothing out. The smallest of details can determine a case." Holmes settled back in his chair, his hands resting on his stomach, fingers crossed lazily. It was a position I had seen him assume many times, and although he seemed half asleep, I knew he was in actuality, deeply engaged in the tale Miss Matthews would soon recount.

She took a moment to steady herself, and then began in a firm, sure voice, to explain the order of events that had lead to the arrest of her fiancée.

"I am engaged to be married to a man by the name of Franz Muller. He is a friend of my father's and the son of a gold merchant here in town. I came to know him through my father, and by and by came to love him. By some miracle, he returned my love and so it was that he proposed to me barely a month ago. He has been visiting the house daily ever since."

"It was on the morning of July the 9th that the whole business began. Franz came to our house that morning to join in our breakfast, as was his custom. He was very pleased with himself. He had been given a gold watch chain the evening before by some men who claimed to owe his late father a favor. Franz had taken the chain to another jeweler, a man by the name of Mr. Death." Holmes suddenly sat forward in his chair, and seemed about to ask a question, but she forestalled him. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, Mr. Death is his real name, it is an odd coincidence, is it not?" There was, indeed, a macabre humor in the fact that a man named Mr. Death would be involved in a murder mystery.

"Mr. Death took the chain in exchange for another, for Franz was in need of a watch chain, but had felt it more honest to trade the one he had been given. He felt the chain should circulate in the business his father had vacated. Franz, you must understand, did not wish to take over his father's business and I believe he felt some guilt regarding his desertion of the family trade. He was in school to become a barrister."

"On the morning of July the 9th, Franz, as I said, came to visit. He brought with him the new watch chain, still in its little black box with the words "Mr. Death, Jeweler" inscribed in gold letters on the top. Franz was so proud of the new chain. He showed it to me and to my father, and gave the box to my young sister, Mary. We had just sat down to breakfast when there came a furious knocking upon our door. Father opened it and admitted two police officers and a Scotland Yard inspector. The inspector showed us all a top hat and asked us individually who it belonged to. Of course, I had seen it many times and knew very well that it belonged to Franz, himself. I had to tell them, I daren't lie to the police. When they saw the box from Mr. Death's shop, we were forced to explain how Franz had purchased a new watch chain. Then, without further ado, the inspector read Franz his rights and he was whisked away. I have not been permitted to see him since."

Holmes took a moment to digest her story before leaning forward in his chair, his eyes bright. "And what is he accused of?"

"Of murdering a man by the name of Thomas Briggs. Mr. Briggs was apparently murdered as he sat in his train compartment. The case against Franz is very strong, I am told. They found his hat in the compartment, and the watch chain that was taken from the dead man was the very one he traded to Mr. Death the evening before. Mr. Holmes, I know it seems hopeless, but I cannot believe that Franz would kill a man to steal his watch chain. Franz has no need of that money and he is an honest man. He no more committed the murder than I did."

"And you have come to me in the hopes that I can clear his name?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes looked to me, keen as a hound on a new scent. "It is a pretty problem, is it not, Watson? Most singular. Have you any more details of the crime itself?"

"My father and my fiancée thought it prudent to conceal the more unpleasant details from me," she explained shortly.

Holmes smiled, "And I see you don't agree with them. No matter, we'll enquire at Scotland Yard. Can you describe the inspector who came to your home?"

"He was a rather short man with a long face and small eyes. He reminded me of a rat, in a way." Miss Matthews said with a little laugh, then added quickly, "Though you must not think me disrespectful."

"Could it be Lestrade, Holmes?"

"I do believe so." He turned with sympathy towards the girl, "Yes he does tend to remind one rather of a rat or a weasel perhaps." Miss Matthews covered her mouth to conceal her laughter as a cough. "I will look into your problem, Miss Matthews." Holmes said briskly, standing to indicate that the interview had reached its end.

Miss Matthews also stood, but did not move towards the door, regarding Holmes as if sizing him up. I felt rather uncomfortable by the stare she fixed on him, though Holmes showed no signs of discomfort, he seemed loath to break the silence however, and at last Miss Matthews did so herself.

"I find that men are quick to discount a woman in matters of importance. They say she will 'get in the way' and so she gets pushed aside. Mr. Holmes, I will not be pushed to the sidelines in this. I think you will find me more of a help than a hindrance if you dare keep me involved. So I must request that at the very least, you inform me of the progress of the case. I will promise not to be in the way." She said this with a little smile, as if she were secretly amused by her words. Then her ghost of a smile disappeared and she became very serious, "Franz is my fiancée and one day, with any luck, he will be my husband. I care too deeply about his welfare to allow myself to simply watch from the sidelines while others attempt to free him."

To my surprise, Holmes did not try to merely placate her, instead he drew himself up to his full height, looked her in the eye and said, "Miss Matthews, I promise you that I will keep you informed of my progress. You may, before the end, prove a vital part of the solution."

She relaxed after hearing his words and smiled once again. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You are a better man than I expected you to be." She handed him a small card, "This is my father's home. You can find me here if you need me. Or send a telegram to that address and I shall come to you." Holmes nodded, and took the hand that she extended. "Good day, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson." She smiled at me before turning towards the door, which Holmes had opened for her. "Thank you for your help."

"Good Day, Miss Matthews," I called to her as she began to descend the stairs. Holmes closed the door and turned to me, his eyes shining, but whether with excitement or mirth I was at a loss to say.

"A singular woman, wouldn't you say, Watson? And quite a little problem." He retrieved his pipe from the mantle piece and began to pack the bowl. "I believe our first course of action shall be to call upon Scotland Yard." He glanced at the clock on the mantle piece. "In an hour, Lestrade will be settled in his office with the mountains of paperwork the yard is so fond of. We should be able to catch him then, I think Watson."

"What shall you do until then?" I asked him.

"Read the paper." He answered, and made good his word, burying himself behind the London Times.

I sat in my chair to make some notes on Miss Matthew's tale, but not before I noticed that the date on Holmes' paper was not July 11th, the current day, but rather the evening paper from two days ago. "Holmes, you are reading an old paper." He merely grunted in agreement and the room lapsed into silence. Shaking my head in bewilderment, I turned to my notepad and absorbed myself in my notes.


	4. The Incident of the Top Hat

Chapter 3: The Incident of the Top Hat

An hour later found us both waiting in a little room on the ground floor of an imposing multi-story building. The room, with its ugly chairs and dim lighting was well familiar to me, for it served as a waiting room to the offices of Scotland Yard's top inspectors, among them Inspector Lestrade, with whom Holmes often collaborated. Nowadays, Holmes' name was as good as a key to any room in the building, top secret or otherwise, and we hadn't waited long before Lestrade's small, round form filled the doorway. Holmes ceased pacing up and down the waiting room and I imagined I could see a faint line in the carpet where he had worn a path with his relentless walking to and fro.

"I hope this is important, Mr. Holmes, I'm a very busy man." Lestrade said irritably.

"Oh it is of the utmost importance, Lestrade. It always is." Holmes tossed back. He had come to stand directly in front of Lestrade and his tall, lean figure towered over that of the yard inspector.

"You'd best come back then." Lestrade sighed, and turned to lead us back through the labyrinth of hallways to his office, a tiny room barely large enough to fit the three of us comfortably. We sat in a cluster around Lestrade's desk, amidst a veritable mountain of paperwork so large it threatened to take over the entire room.

"My business concerns the murder of Thomas Briggs aboard the inner city train." Holmes said the moment the door had been shut. "I believe you are investigating it?"

"Was investigating it," Lestrade corrected, "just made an arrest last night in fact. An open and shut case if ever there was one. Nothing to interest you, I'm afraid."

"I am the best judge of that," Holmes replied sternly, "I am acting on behalf of a client, the fiancée of the accused."

"You don't say? She gave you some sort of sob story?" Holmes did not respond to this rather rhetorical question, and Lestrade continued, "Well I don't see harm in telling you the particulars. But as I said, you're a wizard if you find a hole in the facts. They all lead straight to Muller. I feel sorry for his fiancée, but fact is, he'll hang."

"There's always the possibility that something was missed, Lestrade."

Lestrade grunted in reply as he searched through the papers on his desk. After a minute or so of silent shuffling, Holmes spoke again, "Lestrade, perhaps it would be more informative to visit the site of the murder? I should very much like to see the compartment Briggs was found in. If the paper is correct, it is being detained at Bow Station." Lestrade looked up in triumph, holding a sheaf of papers in one hand while his other grabbed his hat.

"I'll take you there if you pay the fare." He replied with a mischievous grin. "The paper was correct on most points, it omitted the gorier information for the sake of it's readers. Not everyone has your taste for blood and death, Mr. Holmes. Holmes laughed and stood as well, collecting his hat and coat.

I regretted, now, that I too had not thought to brief myself on the facts of the case with the evening newspaper from the 9th of June, as Holmes had done in Baker Street. Rather in the dark, I followed Holmes and Lestrade as we hailed a cab to Bow Station.

The lunch hour traffic had just begun as we reached the station. We jostled our way through throngs of workers heading home to their wives for an hour or two and presently found ourselves on an eerily deserted platform. A single car had been left there, guarded by uniformed bobbies on both sides. Upon seeing Lestrade, they stepped aside allowing us access to the car.

The smell of decay on the inside was overpowering, the compartment was rather narrower than some of the first class cars I had been in before, but the oppressive ambiance had nothing to do with the design of the car itself, nor did the fetid atmosphere. The car was covered in blood. It was splashed on the cushions on both sides of the car, on the exit door on the opposite side, on the floor, and even on the ceiling in places. I immediately felt a desire to retreat from that awful compartment. Holmes, however, got onto his hands and knees and began looking closely at the blood stains with a magnifying glass. We watched him in silence for a moment, then Lestrade began to speak in response to a look from Holmes.

"The facts of the case are relatively simple. Two men, bank clerks, entered this compartment at approximately 11pm on the night of June the ninth. Shortly after they reported the car to the metropolitan police, Thomas Briggs' body was found on the tracks between here and Hackney. He was face down, sprawled across the Hackney-bound tracks as if he had been thrown out the window of a train bound for Bow. As you can see by the blood on that window there, the theory seems to be supported by the evidence."

Holmes ran his lens over the blood on the window and nodded. Lestrade took a moment to clear his throat, and then continued.

"I found the compartment exactly as it is now, with the exception of three objects which had been left on the seats, a walking stick, a bag, and a beaver hat. The walking stick and bag were identified as belonging to Briggs by his widow. The hat we later traced to Muller through the makers on Crawford Street. Muller admits that the hat is his." Lestrade paused at an indication from Holmes.

"I believe I have seen all I need to here, Lestrade. These blood spatters are most interesting," Holmes swept his hand through the air in a wide gesture, indicating the blood marks that covered the compartment. "They are almost perfect." Without another word, he exited the car. I breathed easier as we entered the relatively fresh air of the compartment. "Is there anything more of note, Lestrade?"

Lestrade nodded and continued in his rather mechanical recital of the facts. "Brigg's widow informed us when she identified the body that he was missing his watch and gold-rimmed glasses. A jeweler by the name of Mr. Death reported just this morning that a similar watch chain had come into his possession only yesterday. Mr. Muller had brought it in with some tale of inheriting it from business partners of his father. Muller traded the chain for a new one. When he was apprehended he was found with the new chain on his person. Muller has not confessed yet, but it's only a matter of time. There's a fortnight still to go before the assizes, but he'll come around sooner or later. I've never seen a cleaner, simpler case."

Holmes looked back at the car thoughtfully. "Hmm, perhaps so. The case against Muller does seem grievous. Those blood stains though," Suddenly, Holmes' introspective attitude changed abruptly as he spun to fix Lestrade with the full force of his keen stare. "Tell me, Lestrade, How long is the ride between Hackney and Bow?"

"Less than five minutes I should say."

"And Briggs entered the train at Hackney station?"

"The compartment was empty until Hackney, according to the conductor." Lestrade answered.

Holmes took his hat off and turned it over in his hand. "Watson, I believe we will pay a visit to the morgue, with your permission of course Lestrade."

"They will give you no trouble, I'm sure." Lestrade replied blandly.

"Come, then Watson," he said, shooting me a triumphant look so quick I was barely sure I had seen it. When he turned again to Lestrade, his face was blank and unreadable "It is rare to have a genuine open and shut case, I congratulate you." He turned away, the added, almost as an afterthought, "Of course, I am not known for my good manners, but I am not often in the habit of taking my hat off and setting it down for a five-minute ride. Are you, Lestrade?" In the next instant he had set off in long strides across the platform and I was forced to jog to catch up to him, leaving Lestrade to stand alone on the platform his mouth slightly agape.


End file.
